


A Little Bit Bigger

by Beabaseball (beabaseball)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Background Character Death, Drug Use, Gen, Inspired by Music, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Music, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beabaseball/pseuds/Beabaseball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred F. Jones has finally achieved his dream of attending a major fine art's university to pursue his study of music when he meets and falls in love with the brilliant, friendly, attractive Arthur Kirkland, who studies everything from theater to painting, who draws fairies in his notebooks, who writes stories with happy endings, and who has issues that are never going to be readily apparent at first glance.<br/> </p><p>Inspired by "It's Time" by Imagine Dragons.<br/> </p><p>Warnings for mental health issues, brain damage, mentions of drug use, mentions of past violent incidents, background non-canon character deaths and a brief and undetailed mention of attempted sexual assault. This is a romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SomethingLikeAGnome](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=SomethingLikeAGnome).



When Alfred had first gotten the letter—a four year free ride to a _nationally recognized liberal arts university_ —his heart had risen up into his throat and he had burst into song whenever he damn well pleased all summer long. Matthew had squealed and his mother had wrapped her arms around him, smiling, and said, “I’m proud of you, Al.”

Once he was on campus though, his heart, which had still been floating up high quite comfortably, plummeted down into his stomach and he worried he might throw up. There were so many people, and all of a sudden he didn’t feel so extremely special anymore. There were _so many people_ who had come, and by the time orientation ended he’d forgotten the names of everyone he’d spoken to coming in. It felt like he had packed too many suitcases; did he just drag a lot of unnecessary junk to school? Everyone had some sort of accent. No one looked exactly the same. Many people were walking about in starched clothes or sweeping bright fabrics that looked like they were high fashion, but Alfred couldn’t really tell because he was there in his best jeans and button down with new black shoes. He was probably the only kid from small-town Montana on the entire campus.

This theory was confirmed when he learned his roommate was a hikikomori who skyped into all his classes, and the loud angry Italian twins (twins!) down the hall who were complaining about communal restrooms were wearing Gucci.

Orientation didn’t last long enough, and before he knew anyone, he was trying to get settled into his classes. 

His roommate skyped into the same basics science course. His basics math course had over twenty people in it, a staggering number for the university, most of them likely trying to rid themselves of a mandatory.

His music course, on the other hand, had nothing basic or mandatory about it. There were seven people in the class total. When he first entered the room, there had been a man with dark brown hair playing the piano. The song wavered and trembled, filled the room and the halls around it. When Alfred heard it he experienced the oddest, tugging urge to cry. 

The pianist had a mole on his face and glasses and wore a dark blue suit. His eyes were closed, which Alfred would learn was his custom, as he had long memorized the placement of the keys. He wore gloves. His name was Roderich Edelstein.

Roderich was not the professor. He was actually majoring in political science and writing a thesis on how family units affected the working of governments; his music was a minor. Alfred nearly fainted when he found out.

He sat at a table and placed both his hands on it, pressing down through his palms to try and steady himself. 

He was just a freshman. It would be okay; it would be more than okay, it would be _awesome_ , he was at a _good university_ and just a few weeks before he had been down in the valleys, singing its praises at the top of his lungs. Maybe once he was a senior, he would be able to sing even better than Roderich could play piano. No, he would _definitely_ be better, and there was nothing to worry about. Everyone started somewhere.

A voice beside him said, “You look kind of green there. Are you sick?” 

Alfred jumped halfway out of his seat, his nerves prickling and face bright red. He spun to face the speaker: a short, blond man with wild hair and bright green eyes. Big, wide green eyes. If his eyebrows hadn’t been so large, his eyes would have been the most striking thing about his face. 

“Oh,” Alfred said. “Uh, no. I’m fine. Sorry if I looked funny, just a little nervous about my first day and stuff.”

The green-eyed man nodded knowingly. “That’s okay, you’ll be fine. I’m Arthur.” Arthur stuck out his hand. 

“Alfred,” Alfred said, taking the hand. Arthur’s fingers were long and tapered; his palm was square, and adorned with calluses. It was a good hand. Alfred gave that hand a squeeze.

“So, you’re into music?” Arthur asked. Alfred took a deep breath and steadied himself. 

“Yeah. I’m gonna major in it,” he said. “Singing. I’ve, uh, I’ve always just sort of done it and I thought it would be something I’d really… like to keep doing forever, I guess. What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m not sure yet. I told them I was going to do literature, but I’m taking all the arts classes,” Arthur said. He grinned a toothy grin and pulled out a little container from his pocket. “You look terrible. Mint?”

“Thank you,” Alfred said, taking the offered candy. He sucked on it and relaxed. “A lot. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Arthur said. Then he turned back to his notebook and doodled as the teacher spoke, occasionally scribbling notes in the margins. 

Alfred sucked on the mint and took notes himself, feeling much better now with a fluttering hope that he’d finally found a friend. 

000

As it turned out, when one had Arthur as a friend, one automatically had Francis as a friend as well.

Francis was majoring in fashion and had the vicious personality to go along with it. At least, that’s what he heard from people after the fact. Meeting Francis, one would have never suspected it. He was tall and thin, with high cheekbones and a slight stubble. His mother had been a hairdresser in France, then moved to Hollywood, and had apparently worked with Lady Gaga once or twice—Alfred bit his lip to hide his grin when he heard. 

Francis’ hair was long and layered, and he had a wide network of friends who were indistinguishable from cohorts.

Alfred met Francis not two days after his first meeting with Arthur. They were sitting out on the lawn, eating their lunches. Alfred had been complaining that his chicken sandwich which tasted just a little bit funny. He tacked it up to regional differences in what constituted a real chicken sandwich.

Francis strutted up to both of them, sat down beside them and said, “Arthur, who is this?”

“S’Alfred,” Arthur said through a bite of his wrap. “He’s a singer.”

Alfred immediately took a large bite of his sandwich so he wouldn’t have to speak. Francis raised an eyebrow, stuck out his hand and said, “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Alfred-the-singer. Would you care to join Arthur and I this evening at the coffee shop?”

Alfred nearly choked trying to swallow his bite of chicken, but once he managed it, he shook Francis’ hand tightly and said yes. 

000

Three weeks in and there was no more shaking knees when he went into class. He still hadn’t convinced his hikikomori roommate to speak with him, but he had successfully gotten a nod when asking whether or not Kiku would mind if Alfred sang in their room. 

So Alfred sang in his room. He started to hum in the halls and when he walked through the town at night alongside Arthur and Francis, who had proven to be connected at the hip. They shared few classes but could be found together often anywhere else. They were roommates, Alfred learned, and very open with each other. 

Alfred would say very bluntly his family had absolutely no problem with homosexuality, despite coming from a fairly religious community, but it was just something he hadn’t ever really talked about before coming to the city. It was new, unexplored territory in a subject he knew only halfway about, and he’d been taught not to really talk about it, but one day curiosity got the better of him and he asked, “So, like, are you and Francis dating or something?” 

“No, he’s fucking my brother,” Arthur said. Alfred choked on his coffee—he had been up until three the night before and Arthur had accompanied him on his Starbucks raid, even though Arthur only ever drank tea and mocktails. 

“Uh, sorry?”

“My brother,” Arthur said, “Barclay. That’s where he goes on Sundays. He buys Barky dinner and they go fuck. It’s kind of nice. They’re both so relaxed afterwards.” 

Alfred watched him closely. “You’re totally okay with your brother doing the nasty with your best friend?” 

Arthur nodded. “It makes them happy. It’s okay. Barclay needs someone to make him happy,” and he smiled a tiny little smile. 

Alfred set down his coffee and leaned across the table to wrap his arms around Arthur and give him a hug. “Oh my god, you’re like, the perfect human being.” 

Arthur laughed. “Now you’re just exaggerating. But thank you.”

“I’m not exaggerating,” Alfred said, but Arthur laughed it off. 

000

Three months passed, and Alfred was in love. He took to chewing his nails and—now used to the bustle of the city—started walking downtown to sweetshops and emailing his brother, Matthew, asking, ‘hey, bro, if you were going to ask someone out, how would you do it?’

Matthew responded a few hours later, just before midnight in Montana and a little while after midnight at school.

\--What does she like? (Matthew asks.)

\--everything artsy. art, books, music, theater, etc. everything i’m serious

\--Maybe ask her if she’d like to go out for dinner and to a play or concert or something? 

\--but how to i bring it up that i want a date?

\--Dude just stroll up all casually and be like, ‘hey, d’you want to get dinner and go to the thing with me?’ If you don’t know her very well, preface it with, ‘hey, I’ve seen you around and I was wondering if…’ and then proceed as previously instructed.

\--you are such a dick sometimes

\--That is legitimate advice! You will find no better advice than that.

\--should i buy a present too?

\--No. If she says no, it’ll be awkward if you try to give her a present. Keep the present for later. 

\--ok. thanks Mattie. one last thing though. 

\--What?

\--it’s a guy. 

\--Oh. Sorry? Advice on asking out stays the same, though. …uh. Are you sure he’s gay, too I guess? Ps- I won’t tell mom unless you tell me it’s okay and fyi I’m kind of glad you said that because I was worried it was just me who though boys were kind of cute sometimes. But boobs are still great!! You still like boobs too?

\--if he isn’t i will cry. thanks matt. ilu. boobs are neutral. katya’s just nice i guess??

\--ILU too. Good luck.

\--thanks.

Alfred closed his computer, put his head in his hands and breathed deeply. He took a few minutes to make his hands stop shaking and to give his churning stomach some time to settle itself. When he felt he wouldn’t throw up, he stood slowly and ran his hands through his hair. 

He left his room and his hikikomori bud who had watched Alfred throughout the entire digital conversation. He tromped down three flights of stairs to the floor with the washers and dryers, the change machines and vending machines.

He’s fumbled through his pockets until he came up with a ten, stuck it in the change machine and received 40 quarters a minute or so later. Soon, a little packet of powedered-sugar donuts, two nutty chocolate candy bars, a bag of microwave popcorn and (after a moment of deliberation) a packet of peanut M&Ms were falling out of the vending machines. He hiked with his horde up to the dorm kitchen, got a box of macaroni-and-cheese out of the cupboard and cooked it while popping the popcorn in the microwave. He ate the mac right out of the pot and the popcorn right out of the bag, with the rest of his candy spread out around him, a few papers of untouched homework in front of him, and his iPod blasting Mika in his ears.

Around an hour later, Toris stumbled in, carrying a small box of frozen perogi. 

“Alfred?” Toris said, speaking just loudly enough that Alfred could hear him over the music. Alfred tugged his earbuds out. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Alfred said. “Just… trying to get over some jitters.” 

“What happened?” Toris asked. Alfred debated for a moment, quickly eating another bite of macaroni to buy himself some time. 

“I just… I came out to my brother,” he said finally, swallowing the bite. Toris’ face grew long and concerned.

“How did it go?” 

Alfred shrugged, suddenly feeling silly, even though his arms were still tingling and his head had a dull ache. “He’s okay with it. I’m … It was just kind of scary. And now I’m gonna try to ask someone out. And I don’t know if he’s gay or not, and I kind of feel like I’m going to puke, but I’m eating a shit-ton of food anyway.”

Toris watched him, shifting from foot to food. “Oh. Good. Good luck with it,” he said. He made his perogi and left Alfred alone once more.

000

The Sunday before It Happened, Alfred went to church. There was a Lutheran church in the city, hidden in the space between an old movie theater and the residential district. The church was a small affair—just a bit taller than a one-story house, with a squat steeple and very few outside ornaments, but the inside was similar enough to what he had in Montana that when he first entered, he took a moment to just stand in the doorway awash in homesickness. The moment passed quietly, and Alfred took a seat in the very back row of pews where only a smattering of church regulars sat. They held Eucharist that Sunday, and Alfred clasped his hands and thought, _please let him like me that way_ as hard as he could. 

Church ended at one in the afternoon. Alfred left silently, shaking hands with the priest and hurrying back into the downtown area, trying to find the flower shop before it closed at three. Because flowers weren’t really a _gift_ —even if Arthur said ‘no,’ he could still enjoy them for a little while. Which Alfred was certain he would.

The flower shop must have had a greenhouse somewhere, because even so late in the year there were all sorts of flowers that probably weren’t supposed to be blooming. The place was rank with aromas and his eyes began to water because of all the pollen. Still, he managed towards the woman manning the desk. He emerged fifteen minutes later with a small, manageably-sized bouquet, absolutely bursting with color from red chrysanthemums and purple lilacs. The clerk had assured him that they meant a declaration of love and the beginning stirrings of romantic attraction, yet were not as overused as roses were. They had some sort of Victorian flower language thing going on, from back in the Romantic Era. Arthur liked that sort of thing, Alfred was sure— so he bought the flowers and a little blank greeting card from Hallmark, scribbling inside an invitation to go to a concert for a band Arthur had played a song by in class two weeks prior. 

He left the flowers in their wrapping outside Arthur’s dorm with the card taped to the side. 

On Monday, Arthur met him in class and smiled. Alfred sat next to him and dared not ask his verdict, but once the teacher had dismissed them all, Arthur took Alfred by the wrist and pulled him back to the dorms. 

“I forgot to bring them with me,” he said, smiling toothily, “but this way you won’t have to carry them for the rest of the day!”

He stepped into the apartment, leaving Alfred waiting at the door. When he emerged again, he was holding a small bouquet of blue and white flowers. They were both small flowers, their petals flaring out like stars— the white flowers looked soft and compact, like frosting, while the blue flowers were thin with pointed petals and a wild mass of stamen and pestles shooting out from a center like a fountain. 

“I liked the flowers a lot; I didn’t know you knew flower languages.” Arthur said. He held out the new bouquet and Alfred took it gingerly and held it in his arms. 

“Uh, yeah,” Alfred said. “I’m not too good at recognizing flowers, actually, uh…”

“Oh! Of course, you’ve probably never actually seen these in person before. They’re more common abroad, but I help take care of them in the greenhouses here on campus.” Arthur stood on his tip toes and pointed to the white flower. “This is a white camellia.” He pointed towards the blue flowers with the stamens like fountains, “And this is Love-In-A-Mist.” 

Alfred’s heart beat rapidly. Hope blossomed in his chest. “…so you want to go to the concert with me?” 

Arthur smiled and said, “Yeah, sure. Just let me talk with Francis.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Awesome. Uh. Want to have dinner first? Get out of the cafeteria for once?” 

“I don’t know how much spare money I have, and Francis gets mad if I spend a lot of his.” 

“We don’t have to go anywhere fancy. I know a couple nice places around, and I can cover both our tickets if you’ll help me out with the tip… I don’t actually know how paying for dinner goes between two guys.” 

Arthur raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, saying, “There’s a certain way things have to go?” 

Alfred grinned slowly, laughed and—careful to not to damage the flowers—gave Arthur a gentle one-armed hug. “Nah, this is our date. It can go however you want.” 

“Oh, good!” Arthur said. He squirmed a little in the hug and Alfred released him just as the bell tower on a church downtown began to toll. 

“Shit,” Alfred said, “Shit, I need to put these in my dorm and get to class. I’ll work out the details with you later, okay?” 

“Okay,” Arthur said. He smiled and waved serenely as Alfred turned and ran. Alfred didn’t look back. His face was too red, and it was embarrassing. 

000

Francis came to breakfast early the next morning. Usually, Alfred would arrive before anyone else, since he treasured a long, leisurely, full breakfast and was willing to arrive a full hour and a half before his classes in order to ensure he got it. Without breakfast, he ceased functioning for the entire day. Often, Arthur and Francis would join him, or if not, someone else would usually drift by. Usually, it was Elizabeta, who was in the wrestling club with him, or Gilbert, who came to gossip, or Toris, who came to complain about Gilbert, Feliks, and Elizabeta all ganging up on him. Sometimes it was someone Alfred didn’t know at all, but no one ever came to sit beside him within his first fifteen minutes. 

Therefore, seeing Francis in the cafeteria—already dressed for the day in his dark purple shirt and paper thin scarf—was shocking, especially since Francis treasured his beauty sleep so dearly. 

“Good morning,” Francis said when Alfred slid into the seat beside him.

“Hey,” Alfred said, taking a bite of his cheerios. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Francis shook his head. “No, I got up intentionally, unfortunately.”

“Oh. Why?” 

“I wanted to talk to you. It’s about Arthur.” 

Alfred set down his butter-and-jammed toast and said. “Oh,” again, because was a good response to almost everything Francis ever said. “What about him?”

It was then that Alfred first saw the cutthroat designer that people kept telling him Francis was. His friend’s eyes narrowed, his shoulders straightened and he seemed to sit at least three feet taller than he ever had before. Francis leaned in until his and Alfred’s noses were almost touching. Then, he said, “If you dare touch Arthur inappropriately or allow him to come to any harm, Barclay and I will rend you. Arthur may not blame you the slightest, but considering he is a terrible judge of character and actions, that will have little consequence. If you try to say, ‘well Arthur wanted it,’ that will not make it any better at all. This is your first date and we will give you some slack, but if there is the tiniest hair out of place then it will also be your last date. You are responsible for everything, barring acts of nature or God. Do not fuck this up. Am I making myself clear?”

Alfred had melted into a tiny puddle on the floor. He squeaked out a very tiny, “Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” 

Francis turned back to his tiny breakfast and resumed his delicate nibbling while Alfred tried to remember what his heart felt like when it wasn’t pounding in his ears. 

Several long minutes passed before he could take another bite of his toast. The cafeteria was slowly beginning to fill in and there was soon a general buzz around them as the campus began to wake.

Alfred swallowed his last bite of eggs and glanced sideways at Francis, who was on his cell phone saying, “Yes, you can have them. Just come down to the cafeteria when you’re done, all right?” 

Once Francis hung up, Alfred gathered the courage to speak again. “Francis?” he said. “Uh… you know I don’t want to hurt Arthur, right? I really, really like him, I wouldn’t ever intentionally hurt him…”

Francis sniffed and said, “Yes, well, it is _much_ easier to unintentionally hurt Arthur than it is to unintentionally hurt most people. He doesn’t know how to take care of himself and he doesn’t know when he’s allowed to say ‘no’ to things. While I believe you don’t mean to harm him, that doesn’t mean you won’t without realizing it. So I’m telling you, if you are not a completely mature adult and ready to take care of anything that might happen—including not having sex on the first date, _do not do that_ —then you are not going to be permitted to have any sort of relationship with Arthur. It’s for his own safety, understand?” 

“But why does he need to be protected? He’s my age! He’s really smart and friendly and he’s been living here his whole life. Why the hell do you think he needs a babysitter? I’m pretty sure he can make his own decisions now!” 

Francis bristled up once more and said, “It will only become your concern when you can prove you can take care of him.” 

Alfred huffed and stabbed his spoon into his now-soggy cereal. 

Arthur entered the cafeteria about ten minutes later. He gave them both hugs, snuggled up between them to take his spot at the table and said. “Is the concert still on, Wednesday?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Alfred said, awkwardly shifting his spoon and glancing at Francis once more. Arthur didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, it is. D’you want me to pick you up?”

“Sure,” Arthur chirped. “Whatever works best.” 

“All right, cool. I’ll pick you up around four. You don’t have any allergies, right?” 

“No.” 

Francis elbowed Arthur and said, “Yes you do.” 

“Oh,” Arthur turned to look at Alfred, “Sorry, yes, peanuts. But I don’t think it will be anything of a problem.” He smiled. Arthur had a beautiful smile. 

Alfred chuckled nervously, and smiled back.

000

They ate at a small diner not too far away from the concert venue. It was cheap and nothing had peanuts in it, and Arthur said it was almost as good as Francis’ meals. Maybe not in quality, but the food had come so much more quickly than a home-cooked meal that he counted that in the scoring. Alfred paid for most of it, though Arthur insisted in covering their desert and the tip. He left a large tip.

“Francis met Barclay while waitering,” he said. “He always complained about not getting lots of big tips, so I like leaving big tips. It makes the waiters happy. Barclay gets mad at me sometimes, though, because he says I give a little too much.” Arthur shrugged. “But we don’t go out extremely often, and I like it when people are happy.”

“That’s great.” 

“Yeah, they are.” 

Arthur smiled again as they went to the concert. The space was so enclosed and the speakers were so loud that Alfred thought his heart might jump out of his chest.

But maybe his jumping heart was because they were pressed up against each other amidst the great throngs of people. Their hands were twined together and their chests were partly pressed against each other, and Alfred could swear he could feel Arthur’s heart jumping out of his chest as well. They were close to each other and to everyone else in the world. When someone’s jumping behind Alfred started to feel a little more like grinding, instead of arousal Alfred was sparked with anticipation of more concerts. He imagined late-night cuddles and trips to the Starbucks while holding hands and feeding each other sweets in between pecks on the cheek, all he could think, was Thank you God, for making us both gay.

000

Sent at 12:34

-matt.

Sent at 12:36

-mattie

Sent at 12:37

-MATT

Sent at 12:40

-MATT GET IN THE CHAT ROOM

Sent at 12:42

-Omfg Alfred, what? This had better be good I was chatting with Katya.

Sent at 12:42

-THERE YOU ARE! about time i was totally about to just spam you without you even being there. 

-Why didn’t you just do that in the first place?

-because i want your reaction

-Oh God

-arthur and i had a date and it was fantastic.

Sent at 12:43

-Oh. Okay then. Great for you!

-also we kissed. KISSED MATTIE WE KISSED he tastes like hot dog!!!

-You’re a regular Casanova, Alfie. Are you sure you didn’t just taste what he’d been eating earlier? Did you just lick his lips or was there actual open-mouth going on, because I think that’s a bit much for a first date.

-try as you might, nothing will ever bring me down tonight mattie-boy. try as you might.

000

Francis grabbed him by the arm while Alfred is trying to hurry along to his Advanced Songwriting and Recording 2 class, which he also shared with Arthur. Instead, he was dragged away while shouting, “Hey, dude, what got into you?” while Francis remained stony-faced and thin-lipped. 

He shoved Alfred against the wall of the brick cafeteria and hissed, “You kissed him.” 

“What?” Alfred said, trying to move away from the wall. Francis shifted each time he tried to escape. 

“Arthur. You kissed him the other night. I told you to be _responsible_.”

“I was!” Alfred hissed back. “I was more responsible than any babysitter I’ve ever met!”

“You kissed him.”

“We were on a _date_.” Alfred matched Francis’ scowl with one of his own, deciding he was finally fed up with whatever stupid game the man was playing at. He shoved until Francis stumbled back several feet, and Alfred finally got away from the stupid wall. “We were on a date. We’re going on another one this Saturday, and if you think that when he wants to kiss I’ll tell him that I can’t, because Francis told me he’s not mature enough to handle parts of our body squishing together? You’re fucking crazy. What, have you been stalking him and dating his brother in order to get closer to him or something? What’s with you?”

Francis made a sound of such righteous indignation that Alfred almost took a step back towards the wall—then he didn’t. He shifted a bit, but planted his feet firmly once again and held his scowl with as much certainty as he could manage. 

“I’m watching out for him while his brother can’t,” Francis said. “I’m his _friend_.”

“You’re an awfully overprotective friend,” Alfred said. “Even I’ve had kisses before, and I live in Montana, where there’s no one around to kiss!”

“Since you obviously haven’t noticed, Arthur isn’t exactly like the people you’ve met in Montana!” 

And then the last thread snapped. Alfred grabbed Francis by the shoulder and flipped their positions, shoving Francis into the wall where Alfred had previous been pressed. 

“Okay, I don’t get it,” Alfred hissed. “I’ll admit that. I don’t get all the protectiveness at all, so why don’t you spell it out for me if I’m so dense?” 

There was a lump in Francis’ throat. Alfred watched it rise as Francis’ eyes flicker back and forth, searching for something or other just beyond Alfred’s head. 

“Arthur was fourteen,” Francis said after a long and painful pause. His eyes closed. “He was in the car with his mother and one of his brothers. Wallace. They crashed. Arthur got a bad head injury. It addled him, he’s got brain damage. He’s not _all there_ anymore. Wally and his mother—they died in the crash. Aiden couldn’t deal with it. He stayed for three weeks, packed up, and left just as Arthur was getting out of the hospital. Occasionally he sends a postcard so Barclay knows he’s not dead. As far as we know, he’s doing some sort of tour through Europe right now, but there’s no real way to find him. Barclay’s been taking care of Arthur ever since. When we started dating he found out we’d be going to the same university and he asked me to help look after Arthur.”

Francis’ eyes were still closed. Alfred removed his hands from Francis’ shoulders. 

Francis took a deep breath—still looking away—and said, “Arthur lost some of his social filter and he doesn’t recognize danger. He’s smart, but he just can’t wrap his head around there being bad people in the world. Whenever people hurt him he just gets confused and upset. He was almost raped once, because he didn’t realize what was going on. He got beaten up in highschool and he didn’t understand why, so he just didn’t say anything and he kept going back to the bastards and getting beaten up again. He didn’t realize he was at risk! He never expected it, each time!”

Francis’ eyes were open again. If Alfred looked closely, he might have been able to see a thin welling of tears. Alfred wasn’t looking closely. His eyes had ceased working, and his fingertips had ceased feeling. It was as though all the world was the words ringing in his ears and the slowly growing knot in his chest and the ache in his knees. 

“He gets so upset and he doesn’t understand, so he started self-medicating. The illegal sort. If you dare tell anyone, I’m planting _so much_ meth on you that you’ll _never_ get out of prison.” If Alfred’s eyes were working, he would have thought Francis barring his teeth bore a distinct resemblance to a mother bear. “We can’t trust him to stay out of trouble. We’re over protective because he needs us to be, and the university accepts that, because he’s smart enough and talented enough, so he gets a free ride and can take whatever classes he wants, but the rest of the world won’t do that for him.”

Alfred took a deep, shuddering breath, and realized he hadn’t breathed for nearly half a minute.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, shit, I…”

“Yes,” Francis said, glaring at Alfred. His face was moist. “I think I’m allowed to be pissed that you kissed him.”

000

Alfred stumbled, late, into his music class. The teacher gave him a short look that meant they would be speaking later, and Alfred slid into his place beside Arthur. 

Arthur looked up at him, grinning and cheerful. His notebook was filled with pretty little cartoonish fairies, each with a little smiling face, or a laughing face, or maybe a little weepy one. 

Alfred thought back on some of the things Arthur had shown him—short stories about the fairy community that lived in his imagination: how Lucetta and Darian were dating, and because Thumbeline loved Darian too she was sad, so Hermena told Darian that Thumbeline was sad and they all worked it out without anyone being upset in the end. Like a really cheesy fairytale; like something out of the mind of a person who didn’t like thinking about conflict. 

If Alfred looked closely, Arthur’s pupils certainly were rather large, as though he were doped up on something. He’d always assumed it was a side-effect of some kind of contact lenses. 

Something mundane. 

When Alfred thought about it, though, he had to think… car crashes were pretty mundane. It could have been anyone. It could have been someone other than Arthur, and then Alfred’s friend would be… 

…he would be not as he was. 

Alfred flipped to the back page of his notebook and began to scribble down some scattered words running through his mind. He covered the text with an arm, making sure the words were kept private, and when the class finally ended he turned to Arthur and said, “Could I meet your brother?” 

And Arthur chirped, “Well sure! I don’t see why not.”

000

Barclay Kirkland was a giant in a dwarf’s body. He seemed to loom much larger than he actually stood. He was a head shorter than Alfred, but with his bright red hair, large glaring eyebrows and thick muscled arms, it was very easy to forget his size. 

He had two tattoos on his forearms, both were black and white. One of his arms was covered in a winding, knotted, thick rope. The other arm showed scissors—or maybe small hedge clippers—with its blades closed. 

He was standing, arms crossed, on the sidewalk between a lamp post and a blue federal mailbox when Francis first saw him. Francis dashed over, grabbed Barclay by the base of the neck and crushed their lips together in a way which looked like it might almost be painful, but neither of them seemed to mind. He rested a hand on Francis’ back and craned his neck up to return the kiss, and when they broke apart they muttered words to each other so quietly it was impossible to make out. When they stopped whispering, Barclay turned to Alfred and looked him over with piercing green eyes. 

“So,” he said. “You’re ‘Alfie.’ Good. We need to talk.” 

Alfred was led back to Barclay’s apartment in what was known as the ‘shit-side’ of the city. It was not infested with criminals and crack-addicts, but the buildings were old and in poor shape. Their shutters were falling off, their paint was peeling and there were terrible water stains on every ceiling. Mold grew in the less-upkept houses and all the corners of the carpets curled.

Barclay’s apartment lived up to its area’s reputation: he lived on the fifth floor of a building in a four-room flat; one bedroom with a small closet, a bathroom, a living room and a kitchenette. The shutters had been pried off the windows and replaced with nailed-on curtains. Only the kitchen had a full wallpaper and dark water stains were present in every room. There was spare clothing and empty cans hidden about here and there, as well as an abundance of pencils and papers. Sketches and photographs adorned the walls. The couch’s pillows were all mismatched, and on the living room table was a half-eaten sandwich and Mars Bar from some previous, long-forgotten meal.

When Barclay entered, he stretched out one arm and said, “This is home.” The water stains on the ceilings may as well have been as grand as the roof of the Sistine Chapel. 

Barclay sat on the couch, sweeping a space for Francis to sit and motioning Alfred towards a small chair in the corner. 

“All right,” Barclay said. “What do you have to say for yourself?” 

“I’m sorry,” Alfred said right away. “No one told me anything about Arthur having consent issues, but I… I want to help, I guess.” 

Barclay snorted and crossed his tattooed arms over his chest. Francis put a hand on Barclay’s shoulder. 

“I do!” Alfred said. “I really, really do. And I can prove it, but, but I want to ask a favor first.” 

“What kind of favor?” Barclay said, raising one of his large eyebrows. The family resemblance was uncanny. 

“It’s about Arthur. I want him to come visit Montana with me.”

“Montana,” Barclay said. He wasn’t frowning, but he certainly wasn’t smiling, and his tone was as flat as a slate. “Uh, fuck no.” 

“I’ll pay the plane fare. I will,” Alfred said, wilting a little. He fidgeted but tried to hide it. “I just… want my family to meet him.”

“Where no one can hear him scream?” Barclay said. 

“No! No, nothing like that.” Alfred held his hands up in front of him. “Just… family.”

“Arty isn’t going anywhere off of _campus_ unless either Francis or I are with him,” Barclay said. He crossed his tattooed arms over his chest. Rope and clippers. 

“I…” Alfred glanced at Barclay’s arms—muscled and intimidating, promising one thousand blows— “I don’t know if I can foot three tickets…” 

Francis and Barclay glanced at each other. 

“I’ll help,” Francis said. Barclay uncrossed his arms long enough to give Francis’ thigh a squeeze and kiss him on the cheek. Francis grabbed his jaw and caught Barclay on the mouth. Barclay burst out red and quickly crossed his arms again. “So Alfred has no excuses.”

000

Sent at 3:21

-matt  
matt i dont know anymore

3:27

-You don’t know what? If you’re about to say you want to drop out, I will punch you.

3:30

-it’s not about that. it’s arthur. 

-What’s wrong?

-i don’t know if it’s okay for me to love him anymore  
or like  
maybe i don’t want to??  
i don’t know  
i feel shitty  
and i don’t know.

3:34

-Woah wait. Haven’t you only had one date so far?

-yeah

-I thought it went well??

3:35

-it did

-Then what’s up?

3:40

-i just found out some new stuff about him and… i don’t know anymore. it doesn’t feel the same anymore and i’m pitying him more than i’m happy around him now. sorry. i shouldn’t be botering you with this stuff. just tell ma that i invited him and his brother to come home over christmas break so maybe you guys can meet him an dhelp me out? because it’s not something i think i can really explain online. 

Alfred put his head down on the computer desk and closed the laptop. His glasses smeared and he pretended not to notice, even though he knew Kiku was watching him quietly from the windowless corner of the room. If Matthew responded, Alfred didn’t look to read it.

In the morning (Alfred’s face was red and flat from sleeping on the desk all night, as he had fallen asleep there after losing the will to move) there were three new voicemails and a text from Matthew, all saying, “Well if you don’t think you can explain it online, give me a call, moron. Full scholarship genius my ass.” 

And Alfred laughed, albeit quietly, for the first time in three days, and thanked God for Matthew. 

000

The plane ride to Montana was long. There was an hour delay due to poor visibility and a layover in Minnesota, where Alfred had to explain to Arthur that no, no they really weren’t the same place. As it turned out, Arthur was just as bad at United States geography as Alfred was at European.

It was not snowing when they arrived, but frost was on the ground and wind began snapping at their noses and ears the moment they first step outside the Fairfield Airport in Teton County.

“We live about two hours north of here. Middle of nowhere, really, so we’re—Matt!”

Alfred stopped to wave at the boy dashing towards them. He was blond, long haired and lanky, wearing a thin coat and carrying three heavier winter coats in his arms. At the same time, he and Alfred both dashed forward to embrace each other. They were mirror images. The coats fell out of their arms and spread out on the airport steps while Arthur and Barclay looked on, eyebrows furrowed, one frowning and the other smiling bemusedly.

After finally managing to pry himself out of the other’s arms, Alfred turned to them and said, “Sorry, uh. This is my brother, Matthew. We… we were a little iffy about the separation, y’know?”

“Ya big baby,” Matthew said, giving Alfred a gentle shove in the ribs. “I’ve got the car and we’re going to get something to eat before we head home. And since you’ve probably got thin skin now, have some jackets.”

He bent down to pick up the heavy winter coats from the ground and handed them out, calmly dusting off any dirt or frost which might have been clinging to them. Arthur and Barclay zipped their coats up to the very top while Alfred wore his hanging open. “I’m not _that_ cold.”

“You’re a southerner now, bro,” Matthew said, grinning. “I’m going to assume you’re freezing your ass off every time it dips below twenty.”

“Fuck you.” He shoved Matthew and they both smiled.

They ate hot turkey sandwiches and burgers at a nearby diner, had one more bathroom break, then drove north on an empty road for two hours.

The land was wide and filled with dips and small rises interspaced between long stretches of flat. The plants were all brown and gold and dusted with a fine layer of snow. Swaths of trees and shrubs made up small forests in the distance. Whenever one came close enough to be seen clearly, either Alfred or Matthew would point out the window and say, “Juniper,” or “Cottonwood,” or “Aspen,” “Engelmann,” “Chokecherry,” or “Sugar Maple,” “Oh my god, Al, no, that’s a box elder. How long has it been since you saw a tree?” “It was a city Matt. A city.”

Barclay shifted in his seat and Alfred glanced back nervously, but Arthur didn’t seem uncomfortable in the least. He was on his side in the back, seatbelt off, head laid on Barclay’s lap and quietly dozing, oblivious to the outside world.

000

Alfred and Matthew’s childhood home was a small pioneer-type house situated at the very edge of where the mountains dipped down and turned into valleys. There were pockets of trees and shrubs; the grass was golden and short. Frost was still on the ground. A stream which trickled through their property eventually flowed into the Teton River, or so Alfred said. There were no houses or power lines easily visible—all the wires and pipes ran underground. They were close enough to the mountains that the Rockies seemed to loom over them like giants. If one walked far enough towards the range, there was an outcrop filled with snow that had never yet melted which smothered all sound, leaving the walker in a silent, lonely waste.

There was a four-board fence around the house, a small blue-and-white barn and three large, shaggy work horses gallivanting about on the hillside. The house was made of brick and mortar: there was even the small ruins of a forge not too far away where the bricks were likely fired. One small chimney stuck out of the house’s roof, and the smoke coming out of it was heavy and sweet.

“Home sweet home,” Alfred said as he helps unpack the car. Three suitcases, two backpacks and one messenger bag in total. Even though Alfred and Matthew both took a suitcase and Alfred picked up his bag, Barclay somehow ended up carrying the most, and didn’t make a word of protest, picking up both his and Arthur’s bags as well as Arthur’s suitcase. Arthur carried nothing. He did say, “Bar, I can get it,” but Barclay either didn’t hear or ignored his bother, and Arthur didn’t mention it again. 

Matthew said, “Brace yourself,” before opening the door and calling, “Mom, we’re back!”

Alfred cringed as he entered, ready to be yelled at for inviting long-term guests without more than last-minute warning. He should have known she wouldn’t yell at him in front of the guests, but he was less prepared for the sudden hug than he was for the hiss in his ear of, “I’m chewing you out later,” before his mother had already moved on to shaking hands with Barclay and Arthur, ushering them in and chiding Matthew for not helping Barclay with more of the luggage. 

They moved through the house, Matthew tasked with moving all the luggage to the guest rooms (one of which was apparently Matthew’s own room, and Matt would either be sleeping with Alfred or on the couch. It didn’t matter to Alfred much. The house was small, it made sense, and every chance to hang out with his twin was a good one. Separation had been hard, though the pain of it had dulled gradually through frequent chats and phone calls. It hits him hard though, how much he missed home, now that he was walking through it again. Being home again after months and months in a state on the other side of the country, being jetlagged and stressed out because of Barclay and Arthur—he sort of just wanted to sit down on the couch and cry for a while. But he wouldn’t. Now yet. Maybe at midnight if he was still awake, but not yet.) 

While Matthew was moving everything to the guest rooms and his mother returned to the inner labyrinth of the kitchen, out of which all sorts of delicious scents were wafting, Alfred was tasked with showing Barclay and Arthur around the house. 

“There isn’t much to show,” Alfred said. He walked them around anyway. 

The inside of the house was covered wall to wall in—well, all sorts of things. There were finger paintings and scribbles from all the way back to their kindergarten years, and yearbook photos perched on one side of the fireplace. On the other side, there were a few ribbons nailed up, placing one through five. There are one or two small trophies for placing in singing competitions—all of those were Alfred’s—and two or three medals for outstanding community service—all of those were Matthew’s. 

There was more, though. There were large woven, colorful mats on the walls and several skins. There were beaded hanging things that Alfred didn’t know the name of, there were small paintings and large carvings, a plethora of post cards from everywhere from Berlin and London to the World’s Largest Rubber Band Ball and the House on the Rock. Old pottery bowls on glass shelves were placed right beside the prime-condition Xbox 360 and HD TV they had bought themselves for Christmas two years before. On the wall over the striped couch in the living room, there was a large painting of the ocean, misty and roaring, and a hoard of square-sailed boats moving smoothly through the water. There was no shoreline in the distance.

“Dad painted that. He was Swedish; had a thing about Vikings apparently,” Alfred said, suddenly painfully awkward about bringing two orphans into his house, where his family’s history was enshrined on all the walls. “Most of this stuff is Mom’s, but he helped her put a lot of the original stuff up, apparently. I never actually knew him.”

He wondered what happened to Barclay and Athur’s father. Maybe he was in the car when it crashed. Maybe it was something else. 

He shook his head a bit and ignored the terrible, sympathetic look on Arthur’s face. He gestured wide to all the craft and art on the walls. “Mom’s part Blackfoot. She works for Rosetta Stone, helping them gather the local languages together and preserving them. She’s super proud of it. If you ask her about it, she’ll go on for an hour at least, so if you find it interesting, go for it, she’ll love you, but just be prepared. The pottery is from my grandmother’s side. She was Spanish. We’ve still got some of her old recipes; I can make a wicked paella. Matt makes great crepes and stuff, though. He’s all about breakfast food; it’s weird.”

He skipped the upstairs, saying, “That’s just bedrooms. You’ll see them soon.” 

They journeyed outside instead, Arthur and Barclay donning their borrowed coats again. Alfred went without. It was true that he was more used to the warmer weather of the coastal east now, but that didn’t mean he wanted to announce it, and so he strolled outside in his tee-shirt and jeans even though goose bumps rose on his skin almost immediately. 

He leads them to the edge of the four-board fence, where they can see the small barn, and points to each of the horses as he can. There’s two thoroughbreds and one work horse. 

He points to the big red thoroughbred first and says, “That’s Braveheart. His official name is The Magnificent Chupacabra, which people got a kick out of when we showed him. The bay next to him is Caroline. We used to show them, but Caroline’s getting really old and Braveheart had EPM and his back never really recovered, so now they mostly just dope around here eating grass and enjoying themselves. We try to keep them comfortable, ‘cause we still love them. It’s just a bit sad to see them like this.” 

Behind him, he heard Barclay sigh, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he might see something of a frown, and wondered what he said wrong. Arthur said, “Aw, poor things,” and Alfred quickly moved on to the third horse.

“That’s Dutch, like Dutch chocolate. He’s a rescue. He’s a work type horse, I forget the actual name of what he is, but he’s basically retired too. He gives ponyrides once a year and helps the other two mow the lawn, and sometimes we ride him for fun, but not often anymore.”

They watched the horses for a while, but went back inside to check on the course of dinner and because Arthur was cold.

000

Matthew roomed with Alfred that night, and planned to for the rest of the nights during the visit. 

“So what’s up with you and them?” Matthew said. It hadn’t been the first thing he’d said. The first thing he said was, “I missed you, ya big palooka,” and Alfred had laughed and they’d hugged. But now the hug was over and Matthew was asking the question Alfred had been waiting for. 

Alfred sighed and lay down on the bed he hadn’t slept in for months. It smelled a little bit like dust. His nose itched.

“Well,” he said. “It’s complicated.” 

“Hit me,” Matthew said. 

Alfred sighed once more and said, “Okay. So. We went on a date, remember? And there was a little kissing involved and that was fantastic.” 

“Yeah?”

“Well, the next day, uh… well basically, he’s got like, one other friend that I know of besides his brother, and that’s Francis, and the next day Francis got really mad at me about it, and I was confused as hell, but, see, it turns out…” Alfred took a deep breath. “Turns out…” 

He groaned and rolled over so that his face was next to Matthew’s. He whispered the rest of the story in Matthew’s ear, as though to speak of what had happened at a volume any louder than a whisper would be profane.

“Oh,” Matthew said, not much louder than Alfred had been speaking. “…well, if you’re breaking up because you don’t want to hurt him, I guess then…I dunno. It’s good that you don’t want to hurt him…”

Alfred shook his head. “No, it’s not that. Well, it’s that too. But also… he’s different now that I know. I mean, he doesn’t really… seem like the same guy I thought I was maybe in love with.” 

Matthew sat up straighter and turned to face Alfred head-on. “Okay, Al, you just went from sympathetic to slightly dickish.”

“What?”

“‘He’s not the same guy I thought I was in love with’?” Matthew said. “He’s been like this since before you met him, right?” 

“Well, yeah…” Alfred said, scratching the back of his head. “But I didn’t know about it.”

“Jesus Christ, Al, that’s like saying you fell in love with someone, discovered they had cancer and then ditched them because of it.” 

“What?” Alfred sat bolt upright. “It is not like that!”

“It kind of is,” Matthew said, matching his brother’s posture. “He’s the exact same person you knew before; you just know more about him now is all. It isn’t like he killed someone and you’re trying to rationalize it.” 

“And what if I don’t really want to deal with worrying about whether or not he actually consents to anything I want to do, Matt?” Alfred said. “What if I don’t want to deal with him self-medicating, or having to worry about if he’s safe twenty-four seven, or all of that stuff that normal people don’t want to deal with?” 

Matthew took a deep breath. “If you don’t want to even try, then yeah, don’t date him. If I were his brother, I wouldn’t want my bro to date anyone who wouldn’t even try once they found out about his problems.” 

Alfred was speechless for a full two minutes. “It’s not like that, Matt,” he said eventually.

“How is it not like that?” Matthew said. “I know you’re not a dick. But this is a pretty dickish thing right now.”

“I still like him,” Alfred said. “I really, really care about him, I do. I just… I dunno if this can work.” 

“So what are you going to do?” 

“I don’t know,” Alfred said. He sighed and shifted to leaned back against the headboard. He pulled his knees to his chest and took off his glasses to rub his eyes. “I was hoping you and Mom could meet him and give me advice. Or something. I don’t know. I know it was a dumb thing to buy a whole ‘nother plane ticket over, but it was important and I didn’t want to try to figure this out alone.”

They sat in silence for another few minutes.

“Talk to his brother,” Matthew said. “If there’s anyone who cares about Arthur, it’s him. He’s going to be the one you have to talk to about this, y’know.”

“But I don’t want to get him pissed at me or something. That’ll wreck any chance we have faster than anything.”

Matthew got up on the bed and shifted to lie beside Alfred.

“If I were his brother,” he said, “I would be more pissed that you didn’t talk.”

000

Though the winter vacation was about two and a half weeks long, Barclay’s work had only given him an additional week of leave, meaning he and Arthur would be heading back to the city a week earlier than Alfred. It took a day and a half to fly to Montana from college, so three days of their vacation were taken up for travel. Their tickets had been for the flight the day after classes had left, knocking off another day. Just to be safe, Barclay also wanted to leave a day early, so that even if delays happened at the airport he would still be able to get a little bit of sleep before having to arrive at his job.

That took five days off of their vacation, giving them about five days left in Montana. 

Alfred dawdled through three of them, Matthew’s advice always present in his mind but always too afraid to act on it. 

He watched the two brothers instead. It was strange how Barclay acted so differently from what his exterior would imply. 

He worked as a bartender, Alfred learned over dinner on the third night of the visit. There was a long talk about alcoholism and the crumbling of society over the obsession of alcohol, and how much better alcohol was treated in Europe.

“I was only ever in the UK, and I don’t really remember Europe much, but yeah, I’ve heard for the most part it’s a lot better there,” he said. 

“Oh, you went to the UK?” 

“We lived there when I was young. Back then there were more jobs over here, so we moved.”

Alfred’s mother nodded. Matthew was quietly entertaining Arthur with his Scott Pilgrim collection underneath the table, trying to not be noticed. That left Alfred to pay attention and answer things directed towards them, but so far, that hadn’t happened during this particular meal.

“What do your parents do?” 

Alfred stiffened and glanced sideways at Arthur, but he didn’t seem to have noticed. He turned and tried to catch his mother’s eye.

“My mom was a horse trainer,” Barclay said, not appearing to hesitate at all. “Dad did door-to-door sales for a while.” 

Alfred’s mother nodded and did not catch Alfred’s glance. “Did they mind you two coming all the way out here?” 

“Not particularly I don’t think.” Barclay took another bite of salad. “But they don’t live with us anymore, so it really wouldn’t have mattered too much.” 

“I see. So it’s just you and Arthur?” 

“Pretty much,” Barclay said. Then he smiled.

Alfred wondered, vaguely, how often he had to answer questions about his dead and missing family. He wondered if Barclay’s stomach was churning inside, waiting for that one question that would turn the entire conversation tense. 

Alfred said nothing, and the moment passed.

It was two hours later that he really realized that Arthur was Barclay’s last real family. 

It happened in the bathroom while he was brushing his teeth for bed. His stomach was suddenly filled with a ten pound weight and his skin went icy cold. He stood and stared at himself in the mirror as though he’d never seen himself before and realized, definitively, Arthur and Barclay had no family but each other and some estranged brother traipsing around Europe, unlikely to ever return as long as Arthur had brain damage. They had already lost one person they cared for because that person hadn’t wanted to live with Arthur as he was. Barclay must have kept it a secret from Francis for weeks, months after starting to date him. What must it have been like to tell him? To ask him to watch over Arthur at the University? To relearn how to take care of his little brother entirely on his own?

Alfred spat out his toothpaste, gurgled some water and washed his face. His skin was tingling still. His eyeballs felt cold, as though he were staring into a harsh winter wind. 

As soon as he left the bathroom, he headed for the guest room Barclay had been given to stay in.

He knocked, and only realized after the door began to open that he was only in his boxers and a t-shirt. 

“Uh, hey,” he said, standing awkwardly in the doorway and shifting from foot to foot. Barclay watched at him through the frame. “Can I come in and talk with you for a little bit?” 

Barclay stared at him for a minute. Then, without saying a word, he stepped aside and let Alfred into the room. 

It was still clean, if slightly fuller than it had been. Barclay’s suitcase was closed and tucked in a corner. His travel bag was by the foot of the bed. On the bedside table there was a small mass of what looked to be pill bottles, though they were hand labeled. Alfred decided it was better to not ask, in case they were Arthur’s mysterious illegal medication. 

“Sit wherever,” Barclay said. He moved slowly and deliberately through the room, entirely unlike his apartment where he had been so comfortable that the walls had radiated and the ceilings heightened with lived-in pride. Alfred got the impression he was being extremely careful, as though he were worried about knocking something over. “What did you want to talk about?” 

“Uh, well, Arthur, I guess,” Alfred said, taking a seat in a spare chair by the wall. “About him and me, mostly. Us.” 

“Yeah?” Barclay took a seat on the bed. He was in a loose shirt and pants, also his pajamas, Alfred assumed. “What about you?” 

“I still want to be with him,” Alfred said. He swallowed. “Or, or, I guess I do? I mean, I understand about the kissing and touching and sex thing now, and I wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt him intentionally, but… I mean, what I think I’m trying to say is that I don’t want to stop knowing him just because I know he has brain damage. He’s a great guy. He’s one of the best guys I’ve ever met.” He took a deep breath. “…he’s been a really good friend to me, so even if we can’t date, I wanted to know if there was any way I could maybe help him out.” 

Barclay was watching Alfred carefully with his big, mossy green eyes. His hands were laced together in front of him. He blinked a couple times, unlaced his fingers and covered his eyes with one hand. 

“Oh, Christ, I was certain you were about to say something else,” he said. Then, he laughed. “Fuck. You had me worried.” 

“Sorry?” Alfred said, not entirely sure what else there was to say. 

Barclay waved his hand. “It’s fine. I just usually expect bad shit to come from nighttime visits. It’s just how stuff goes.” 

Alfred nodded. He sat there quietly for a short while and waited for Barclay to collect himself. 

“So is that a ‘yes’?” he asked once Barclay was sitting up straighter again.

Barclay nodded, rubbing his face. “Yeah. He could always use some more people to talk to, honestly. It’d make taking care of him easier at least.”

“…have you considered a hospital?” Alfred asked, hardly daring to really ask, but Barclay didn’t seem very upset by the suggestion.

“We considered it,” was all he said. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.”

“Uh, cool I guess,” Alfred took another breath, still shaking a little in his skin even though the part he had been dreading was already over. “How’s it work, I guess? Taking care of him. Is it hard?” 

Barclay shook his head. “No, that’s part of why we didn’t want to send him to a hospital. Once we got a diagnosis it turned out to be something we could take care of ourselves pretty well. We thought it’d be better to be with family. He’s not allowed to go off campus or out of the apartment without someone with him and he’s not allowed to take his medicine without someone with him, double-checking his measurements. He knows that and he hasn’t broken any of those rules so far. The rest is just keeping in mind that he’s relying on you for shit other people take for granted, and then taking that seriously takes getting used to.”

Alfred nodded slowly. “Right. I get it,” he said. And a moment later: “How’d you… I mean. Never mind.” 

“What?” 

“I was going to ask about. Uh. How you figured out all that on your own. But it’s a really bad question, sorry.” 

Barclay laced his fingers in front of himself again. His eyes left Alfred and wandered to the window. The curtains were open, and beyond them was a clear night sky, speckled in thousands of stars.

“Arthur was in the hospital for the worst of it,” he said. “Most of the worst of it.” 

Alfred bit his lip. “Does he remember them?” 

“Wally and Ma and Aiden? Yeah. Yeah, he does.” Barclay breathed a rattling breath. “He knows. The drugs usually keep it out of his head, though. I think that’s why he actually started getting them, but I don’t really want to think about that. He knows everything. He knows that shit got fucked up in his head, even. The problem is he just… he doesn’t ever know when he should ask for help; that’s where shit gets dicey. He knows he always _might_ be in danger, but he just can’t see it for himself, so he trusts the people around him to get him out of trouble if it comes to that.” 

Barclay shifted, now looking entirely at the window. “I think this place is good for him,” he said. “Just… lots of nature and full of people who aren’t out to get him. It’s nice.”

Alfred cracked a small smile. “I’m glad.”

Unexpectedly, Barclay choked. Alfred jumped a bit, not having expected the sudden change in demeanor when Barclay suddenly brought a hand up again to cover his face and wipe at his eyes. 

“Shit, shit, fuck,” he said. 

“Uh,” Alfred replied. He stood and stopped, stepping back and forth, completely unsure of whether or not he should go to try and comfort the older man or not. Barclay did not uncover his face—he just kept wiping at his eyes—and when he did, Alfred could see that his face had started growing red and splotchy.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Barclay said. “I’m usually better at this, I swear.” His voice was wavering, though he sounded strained to try and hide it. “I just—fuck—” he wiped his eyes again. “—I wish Aiden were here. I-I. Fuck. Sorry. You should p-probably go. Sorry.” 

He stood and walked briskly to the door and left, heading for the nearby bathroom where Alfred had originally come from.

Alfred watched the doorframe for a while, wondering if it were wise to leave Barclay alone as he was. 

Alfred left. He closed Barclay’s door behind him, went to his own room and curled up beside Matthew, lying awake for a long time before sleep ever crossed his mind.

000

There was a thing about Montana.

If Alfred had been a historian, he might have said it was the history written deep within the rocks of the earth and the mountain peaks. 

If Alfred had been a writer, he might have said it was the hypothetical purity of a beginning in nature, of a home isolated and an endless sky above him.

If Alfred had been a businessman, he might have said it was the resources and opportunities and the lands ripe for the picking. 

If Alfred had been a scientist, he might have said it was the abundant flora and fauna and the remainders of a west never entirely conquered.

If Alfred had been a painter, he might have said it was the picturesque landscape, the hills and dips and snowcapped Rockies to the West.

The thing with Alfred was that he was none of those things. He was a singer. So to Alfred, the thing about Montana was the sound. 

When he was very young, he had been told that every day’s background music was John Cage’s _4’33”_ , and somehow the thought took root in his brain and was never weeded out. 

And so for Alfred, the thing about Montana was the birds and the wind through the peaks. It was footsteps crunching on frosted grass and hooves beating on grass. It was the sound of stifled things when snow began to cover the ground. It was voices singing in a church lit by candlelight.

It was the un-sound of falling snow, and it woke him the morning of the fourth day. 

He looked out the window to find the world covered in a fresh white blanket. It hadn’t yet been spoiled by hooves or boots or car tires. It hadn’t yet grown deep enough to block the route out of the house. He sat on the edge of his bed and watched the flakes fall, fat and white, for half an hour before they stopped. Then, he got up and made breakfast. 

It wasn’t a particularly early morning, though Matthew had slept in late. The sun had risen slowly, but it had risen all the same. Alfred made eggs, bacon, toast and sliced fruit for breakfast, ate his portion and set aside the rest for anyone else who woke and wanted something quick. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair and got dressed in his warmer clothes. He sat down at the table in the living room with his school notebook and a pen, and for another hour, he scratched and scribbled and edited what he had written all those weeks ago, when he was sick in love and knew not what to do with himself when his heart broke.

Arthur stumbled out not quite an hour later. 

“Hey,” Alfred said. 

“Hey,” said Arthur. “Is there food?” 

“Yeah, on the counter. Eat up and then get some warm clothes on. I mean, really warm clothes,” Alfred said. “I wanna take you out for a hike.” 

000

Alfred bundled Arthur up in the house’s warmest jacket, even if it was a bit too large for his small frame. He packed a bag with a thermos of hot chocolate, multiple chemical hand and foot warmers which easily lasted an hour each, his fully charged cell phone, a small first aid kit, and two cigarette lighters, just in case. 

He properly covered up his head and his hands and feet, and made sure Arthur did the same, because the temperature had dropped to the negatives and one could never be too careful with a winter like this one was looking shaped to be. 

Just a moment before walking out the door, Alfred turned back, scribbled a note for their families on the counter and took a packet of crackers for the bag as well. Then, they left, locking the front door behind them.

They walked for a short while in silence together, keeping step and hiding their faces from the wind. Arthur didn’t question where they were going, but followed Alfred dutifully, trusting that he knew the way.

“Those flowers you gave me,” Alfred said after the first ten minutes of walking. “What was it they meant?”

“Do you remember what they were?” Arthur asked, holding his arms close to himself though he surely couldn’t warm himself that way through his thick coat. 

“White camellia and Love-In-A-Mist.” 

“Oh, right, right,” Arthur said. He nodded and kept walking. “Camelia’s have a few meanings, but the white one I meant to be loveliness. Because you’re handsome, see?” he grinned. Alfred smiled back.

“And Love-In-A-Mist?” he said. Against his will, his heart began to speed up.

“Confusion or perplexity. It’s a funny flower, isn’t it? I think they call it that because it likes to hide under other flowers.” Arthur continued to smile. 

“Oh,” Alfred said. His face grew red, but he knew Arthur would probably attribute that the to cold on his cheeks. He kept walking. “Okay, cool. Uh. We’re almost to the place I wanted to show you.” 

Arthur trailed along beside him. They paused shortly to take their first chemical hand and foot warmers, and the rest of the journey seemed much easier in comparison. 

They hadn’t traveled exceptionally far from the house, the journey was only about thirty minutes in total, but the snow seemed to make the world grow longer. 

They came to a high hill and climbed it. At the top there was a large, jagged wall of a rock jutting out of the earth and forming a perfect wind shield. Standing in front of it, the world seemed twice as warm. The previously constant billowing and whistling in their ears ceased. 

“It’s quiet,” Arthur said. 

“Yeah,” said Alfred. “Now look over there.” 

Arthur turned to look where Alfred was pointing. Though the hill wasn’t very high, it was high enough to remove all the obstructions of the ground. It was high enough to make the mountains seem a little more touchable. It was high enough to see over the tops of trees, and it was in the perfect position to see down into the snowy gorges and valleys below.

This was a place to see in winter. 

The ridges of the Rockies dipped down to meet the earth. Their peaks stretched upwards, breaking the smooth gray sky into patches of pale blue. Other smatterings of color came from trees and rocks and the golden sun, which peeked, almost shyly, out of the cloud breaks. It filled the valley with golden light, lengthened shadows and deepened pits in the ground. It reflected off the snow and came, golden into their eyes, like the first sight of Elysium. 

It was untouched: not a footstep to be seen nor a whistle of wind to be heard. The world was still in this spot. The world hadn’t moved for an eternity.

It was still and quiet enough that Alfred could hear Arthur’s slow gasp. His heart hadn’t slowed a bit, and he almost feared it would be louder than anything else in this quiet world. From out of his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled piece of notebook paper.

He prayed Arthur was really a Romantic and, willing his voice steady, Alfred began to sing. 

_So this is what they meant when they said that you were spent, but now it’s time to build from the bottom of the pit right to the top._  
 _Don’t hold back—packing our bags and giving the academy a raincheck._

Arthur turned to look at him. He was no longer smiling. His eyebrows were furrowed and there was a slight frown at the edge of his lips. Alfred’s voice quavered horribly.

_I don’t ever wanna let you down. I didn’t ever wanna leave this town; ‘cause after all, the city never sleeps at night._  
 _But it’s time to begin, isn’t it? You get a little bit bigger, and then I’ll admit I’m not the same as I was. And now I understand…_  


He stopped. 

“Sorry,” Alfred said, crumpling the paper in his hand. He looked down at the snow he wished to dive into to cool his oddly furiously hot face and just hide beneath the white blanket forever. “Sorry, this was a really dumb idea. Shit.”

“Oh! No, no, no,” Arthur said. “Sorry, did I look unhappy? I’m not, I was just a little confused is all.” He smiled. “I like it. Did you write it?” 

Alfred nodded. “Yeah,” he said, quietly, “Yeah, sort of, I did.” 

“It’s nice.” 

A moment passed while Alfred tried to collect himself. “D’you want me to keep going?” 

“Sure,” said Arthur.

Alfred nodded and looked back down at the crumpled paper in his hand. Slowly, he smoothed it out once more, swallowed nervously, and fought to keep the waver out of his voice. 

His singing bounded off the walls of the shallow ridge blow, and his echoes rose up like thermals to meet him again. __

_So this is where you fell, and they are left to tell. The path through heaven runs through miles of clouded hell, right to the top._  
 _Don’t look back—turn in the rags and giving the commodities a raincheck._  
 _I don’t ever wanna let you down. I didn’t ever wanna leave this town; ‘cause after all, the city never sleeps at night._

(It was something he had been told a long time ago, which had rooted in his mind as surely as the thought that all the world was secretly set to _4’33”_. Someone had once told him that music was as immaterial as, or identical to, prayer.)

_It’s time to begin, isn’t it? I get a little bit bigger, but then I’ll pretend I’m just the same as I was. But now I understand… It’s me who’s changed from who I’ve been._

(If only Alfred could figure out what it was he prayed for.)

_This road never looked so lonely. This house doesn’t burn down slowly to ashes. To ashes._  
 _It’s time to begin, isn’t it? I get a little bit bigger, but then I’ll admit I’m not the same as I was._  
 _And now I understand; you haven’t changed from who you’ve been._

(Maybe he was praying for a miracle.)

Alfred finished. 

Seconds later, his echo faded as well, replaced only by the sound of Arthur’s gentle clapping. 

Arthur was sitting in the snow, grinning widely, his large green eyes shining.

“You sing like Wally,” Arthur said, his smiling never fading. “It was pretty.”

Alfred took a deep breath. The cold air pinched inside his lungs. 

“Thanks,” he said. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. “…We should probably head back to the house. You’ll catch your death of cold.” 

“Okay,” Arthur said, hopping to his feet and offering Alfred his hand. Alfred took it gently. He rubbed the back of Arthur’s hand with his thumb, and as they walked, Arthur hummed.

_I get a little bit bigger,_  
 _But then I’ll admit I’m just the same as I was_  
 _Now don’t you understand that I’m never changing who I am?_

Alfred walked and Alfred thought, and Arthur, beautiful, wonderful, smart, curious, fearless Arthur, was beside him, beaming and humming and holding his hand. Alfred kept his thoughts private as he walked though the ice and the snow.

“I meant it when I said you sang like Wally,” Arthur said. “And that’s a big compliment, because Wally could sing all sorts types of things like _no one else_ could.” 

“Thanks,” Alfred said. 

“He was hoping to go to Italy and do opera and stuff, or do Broadway or join a traveling choir. He just wasn’t sure what he wanted to seriously train to do,” Arthur said. He was watching the sky as he talked, trusting Alfred to steer him safely down the windy slope of the hill and back onto the path dredged by their footsteps. “I always though he should go to Italy. I think he would have loved it there. Italy or New Zealand, maybe; somewhere warm.”

“He wanted to travel?” 

“Sort of,” Arthur said. “He never wanted to go too far from home, honestly. I think he’d miss us, even if he wouldn’t say so. I was really surprised when you came so far from your home to go to college.” 

Alfred felt his lips crack into a small smile. “I like traveling if there’s something I can get out of it, you know?” 

Arthur nodded, “Yeah, I understand that now.” He made a grand sweeping gesture with his hand, looking around at the wide landscape about them. “I think I get it.” 

Alfred’s grin widened. Something warm which had nothing to do with chemical heating pads fluttered within him. 

“Have you ever wanted to go to Italy, then?” 

“Of course! They have everything there. Theater, art, music, literature, fashion…” His eyes developed something of a faraway look. A voice in the back of his mind which sounded suspiciously like Francis said, _The rest of the world won’t just let him do what he loves._

“If I ever go, I’ll take you with me,” Alfred said. “Does that sound good?” 

Arthur laughed, throwing his head back and stumbling a little in the snow, but he nodded and grinned and squeezed Alfred’s hand through the gloves. Alfred squeezed back, grinning, and wrapped an arm around Arthur’s shoulder. 

This, he decided. This was miracle enough for him.

000

**C n’est jamais la Fin.**


	2. A Little Bit Of Closure (Optional Chapter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone on FFnet requested some additional closure. A summary of Arthur's college career and future beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: UsUk as a pairing wanes in this portion towards the very end. (sorry to the people who read without the warning and were upset/surprised. )

A little bit of closure for you:

After a small trauma over the summer of their first year, Alfred falls in love with Opera and his singing turns to reflect that. Arthur was stuck for a while between theater and creative writing as his major and is struggling under the workload of choosing both.

They go to Italy together in their second year of college: Alfred, for the Italian opera, composers, and musical culture. Arthur, to study commedia dell'arte and the long line of Italian epic poets (Virgil, especially: Arthur could dedicate his life to studying and wondering about the abrupt ending, wondering what happens next after an earth-shattering death.) Barclay cannot afford another ticket to accompany them-he resorts to skyping Arthur to keep in contact, even though his internet bill is about to break his budget. Francis has graduated. Though he still keeps an eye on them, he's unable to hover over Arthur as he did before.

Alfred and Arthur watch a performance of  _Pagliacci_  together, even though neither of them speak much Italian. They hold hands. Arthur has bad days in Italy.

It's hard to get his 'medicine,' there, and the years of toeing the line of addiction have been slowly taking their toll. He's still grieving, years later, having kept it covered up with pills and denial, and trying to distract himself with music and poetry and anything beautiful, instead of the dark of the reality he's been trying to avoid. It was nice in Montana, where he could pretend he was the beginning of a story (a life beginning in solitude under an endlessly blue sky and the watchful eyes of the mountains) instead of a festering character development tumor in the fringes of a door-stopper novel.

Italy is both the best and the worst place for it to happen. Italy, where he is somewhere all-new. Somewhere his family never touched before their deaths, somewhere they strove to but failed. Going to Italy physically puts Arthur beyond the reach of his dead family, but Italy also puts him beyond the reach of his living family. His only support there is Alfred, who is overwhelmed and dealing with his own issues, as he always is and always will be. Italy is the place Wally always wanted to go. Italy is so far from even the  _concept_  of his family; it's refreshing and mortifying all at once.

Arthur has a breakdown in the catacombs of Rome. They go there on a daytrip. They survive it, somehow, with Arthur leaning on Alfred's shoulder and a long and difficult silence on the bus ride back to their dorms. Arthur starts missing class. Not enough to fail himself, but enough that there is notice.

When they go back to the states, Alfred has to return home for the summer, leaving Arthur alone again with his last brother—again, Francis has graduated, has his own budding career, and can only spare so long to take care of his little adoptive family, which is what the two brothers have inevitably become—and with Barclay gone to work most of the day, Arthur starts upping his "medicine" doses. It's easier to disregard the threat of overdose and addiction when your ability to fear has been compromised, after all. And Arthur has been running off of patterns and instincts for so long, it's not even that he fears death or the future anymore. He remembers he's supposed to, but they hold little power over him. He could die easily, if he wanted to.

Arthur is sent to a rehab center. From the rehab center it's decided he needs a therapist. The trouble came in finding a therapist who would treat Arthur like an adult and a human being, rather than a child to be coaxed into following demands. He can still  _choose_ , Barclay insists. There is nothing in his head that makes him unable to decide things for himself. Sometimes his choices are dangerous! But they are his choices. He has the right to choose for himself. He does. He does. He always will. And Barclay will fight to his last breath to give Arthur as many options as he can.

They find a therapist, finally. One who helps wean Arthur off the drugs he's used as a crutch for—what—years, now? One who accepts phone call sessions when Arthur has days he can't leave his room. He has those days, now. They're almost a new concept, but the university, still very helpful, still demands that he show up to classes with a certain frequency. Alfred helps the best he can, but they both have to start discussing their thesises in junior year, and with Arthur more stressed than Alfred's ever seen him, things are hard all-around.

Junior year is the hardest year.

In senior year, Arthur switches his major.

He tells Barclay about the decision a day before he turns in the paperwork. Barclay greets it with a deep breath, pinches his nose, and says, "All right. If you're sure you wanna do this. All right. Lemme know how to help."

Arthur becomes a journalism major. It's not the most horrendous switch, since he already has all of his creative writing credits to help, but for a few weeks its absolute chaos trying to arrange his class schedule to get in the last few credits he needs. More than once, he's asked (not by Barclay or Alfred or Francis) "Why the fuck would you do this?"

"I realized it while I was working on my thesis," Arthur said. "This is what I want to do."

His thesis is on his family. His family tree. Family history. Criminal records. Namesakes. He tracks down an uncle he never knew about, discovers an old family crest in Inverness, learns about the great-great-great- _great_ -grand-relatives he had who served kings and knights. He traces his family's history on all the way back to 1451 AD where his family's first known ancestor wrote an old letter containing the full name of their child. How did they wind up like this?

Arthur chronicles his family history using any tidbit Barclay can get him, contacting long-estranged relatives and through exorbitant use of the internet and several day trips to the library of Congress.

(What Arthur's really searching for is his long-lost brother; he puts out a call to search for him, phones everyone he can, posts online, asks friends of Alfred's for favors. And perhaps Aiden shows up, knocking on the door, dissolving into tears alongside Barclay in the front hall. Aiden was honestly never the best person at handling grief and he's  _sorry,_  but with no friends, one little brother dead, the other injured, his mother gone—

But perhaps Aiden doesn't. Perhaps he comes to their door one evening, jetlagged, alone, and covered in sweat, lugging his travelsack over his shoulder with all his worldly possessions inside. Perhaps he lifts his fist and prepares to knock, but when he brings his knuckles to the door his arm gives out. The tap is so pathetic it couldn't wake a mouse. Perhaps he stands there, his knuckles on the wood, for several minutes on end, breathing heavily and staring at his hand before he walks slowly away from the door, wishing someone would open it and call him back. But they don't, and Aiden goes and sits on the curb until the night's almost turned back into day. He smokes. He smokes a whole pack of cigarettes. Then he stomps them all out, pulls out his cellphone, and calls up some friends to ask if he can couch-surf through the US for a while. He's done all right for himself, alone. He can do it for a little while longer, until he's forgiven himself.)

Alfred and Arthur graduate. Neither are valedictorian, but neither was trying to be. They get their robes and their hats, and afterwards Barclay and Francis take them out to a nice restaurant.

Francis hasn't seen either of them in person for quite some time, and over a glass of wine (holding Barclay's hand under the table, knowing that once it's time to go home he'll be the one trying to hold Barclay together) he asks them what they plan to do now. Alfred knows already. After his first year he started gaining traction socially. He's made enough connections at an Opera house a few hours north to get a few auditions lined up, and he's going to be working with a friend of his to make a CD.

Arthur is still unsure of exactly what he's going to do. Sign on with a newspaper or a journal, perhaps do some online journalism. Perhaps he will take a year to tour Europe. Francis offers to let him do a few stories coverings some of the fashion shows and see if he has any contacts in news agencies. In magazines. Any good opportunities he can find.

Arthur gets a small job with a botany magazine, and writes an article or two for some brochures, for some theater articles, a guest article for a few blogs, gets a gig with the local newspaper, and then with a national one. He gets a chance to travel to India with a team; by then his salary is enough to hire a professional minder—someone who will stand back and just stop him from walking into a hornet's nest if necessary—on Barclay's request. Arthur doesn't believe he needs a minder, but when it comes down to his own decision, he agrees to humor his brother's worry. They're unobtrusive enough and give him space when he wants it, at least.

He falls in love with India. It's full of movement and colors and food that he hasn't really ever had access to before. He falls in love with the movies and the Bollywood stories where even the clichés are beautiful. He falls in love with a man with dark skin and soft hands.

The first person he calls is Alfred. A rising star in the opera world, and currently in-between contracts. You two can talk about music, Arthur says. You both love music so much.

This time, Alfred doesn't fly across the country for Arthur. He flies across continents to be beside Arthur when they give his new boyfriend the talk, the one about the things they will need to know to have a fully open and consensual relationship. And Alfred will be there too, just in case, if this new boyfriend decides that the level of dedication is too much. Because for some people, it is too much. No one is obligated to date anyone. No one is obligated to stay.

But wow. It would be so wonderful if he did.

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a request from a friend of mine, SomethingLikeAGnome, who wanted a fic where Al and Arthur were at a university, Arthur had brain damage, and drawing inspiration from the song "It's Time" by Imagine Dragons. It took me I think a month to complete, but here it is in all it's finished glory!! It was posted with 'Gnome's permission. In addition to giving me the prompt in the first place, 'Gnome also looked it over and helped edit it once the rough draft was finished.
> 
> I wanted to portray Arthur as someone who did have a legitimate mental illness which could be debilitating but who could also function in the world despite it. Someone who wasn't an active danger to others, but who would need help from the people around them. I hope it came through that way. I apologize greatly if this work offended anyone; if it was in some way ableist, please tell me how I can change it to be a better portrayal.
> 
> Otherwise, I hope everyone enjoyed the fic. This is actually my least emotional A/N in a while... it's sort of nice to take a break from BBBreakdown, eheheh......
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sENM2wA_FTg
> 
> Hetalia (c) Hidekaz Himaruya  
> It's Time (c) Imagine Dragons


End file.
